Turkeys and Thanksgiving

Last week was Thanksgiving. Surprise. I’m sure no one had noticed. Thanksgiving today is far different than my childhood. Growing up we would gather up the casseroles and climb in the ’62 Ford and head to Mama Bea’s. If you have read much of my stuff, Mama Bea may seem as familiar to you as your own grandmother. Mama Bea, as you know, lived in Shake Rag which was out from Okolona which was down the road from Tupelo which is where Elvis was born.
Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman raised a variety of animals on their farm. They had the usual cows and chickens but they also had some unusual animals. They had peafowls. Peafowls are those beautiful birds that you usually see at zoos as they strut around with their million brilliantly colored “feather-eyes” staring back at you. They raised quail for a while. This was started one day when Daddy Freeman and I were walking across the pasture and came upon a quail’s nest filled with little ones. He took them back and raised them to adults and pretty soon had quite a covey.
They also had turkeys, although they weren’t around as much as the chickens or the guinea (funny looking fowls from Africa). I never could decide if turkeys were smart or dumb. They wouldn’t nest close to the house like the chickens would. They wandered off across the pasture and into the woods. If you wanted to know where they were nesting, you had to follow them. As soon as we would see a hen heading out, we would follow, eventually finding the nest. As I recall, Daddy Freeman would then go back at a time when the hen was off the nest and get the eggs. He would take the eggs and put them under a chicken that was setting (for you city folk that’s what a hen does when she is incubating eggs). This was necessary because if the turkey eggs were left in the woods, they would be robbed by foxes or raccoons before they ever hatched. But Daddy Freeman wouldn’t just take the turkey eggs, he would also leave behind fake eggs. Something to fool the hen into thinking that all the eggs were there and the nest was undisturbed. Otherwise, off she would go to make a new nest. So, the turkey was smart enough to hide her nest but when it came to the eggs . . . hmmmm, not so much.
Now, I wouldn’t want to compare people with turkeys entirely, although I have known a few turkeys in my life, but, I do see a similarity. As we gathered around the table this year there were many thanksgivings offered up for houses, prosperity, cars, jobs, football teams (not me) and a host of other pleasures that we surround ourselves with. No doubt, all blessings. But really, aren’t they more like those fake eggs in the turkey’s nest? Don’t they replace what is valuable in our thinking with false comforts and security? What really is most important? Family? Friends? It really is a much shorter list than we may think, if we stop to think. Let’s give thanks to God for what is really important and not let others define what is important for us. We may or may not have full tables, but at the very least, we’ll have full hearts.

Bogue Creek

When I was twelve years old, I had an unusual assortment of friends. They were Jerry, Gary and Snake Doctor. Jerry lived down the street and across the sewage ditch. The ditch was a dividing line between the haves and the have-nots. Jerry was on the have-nots side. His four room shack had a living room, a bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom that didn’t have a shower or tub. We called them shotgun shacks because, as you know, a shotgun could be fired in the front door and the shot would go out the back without hitting the walls. Jerry was a relatively nice kid as was Gary, his cousin. Snake Doctor was from a similar background as Jerry but wasn’t all that nice. Actually, he was a little bit scary and unpredictable. All of them were three years older than I was.

One day we all decided to make a trip to Bogue Creek. This meant my sneaking off from home. Jerry, Gary and Snake Doctor didn’t have to sneak because their parents didn’t care where they were, ever. Jerry grabbed his 410 shotgun and off we went. We crossed the railroad tracks, the “black” cemetery and meandered our way through a stand of trees to the creek. We had made the trip many times. On this trip, we decided to shoot shad. Shad are little silvery fish that swim in schools. We were having a grand time shooting at the fish and watching them blast out of the water. At some point Jerry made his way out onto a sand bar and I stood on the bank near him. The school of fish darted into the water that separated the bank from the sand bar. Now, even a twelve year old knows a little bit about angles and a phenomenon called ricochet so when Jerry raised the shotgun, I threw my arms up in front of my face and screamed, “No!” Too late. My legs were on fire. I looked down and there were little holes in my pants’ legs. I quickly pulled them up to find dozens of little bits of lead buried in my very skinny legs. There was also blood. Not much, but enough to scare me, Jerry, Gary and even tough guy Snake Doctor who I was sure had shot a few people already, on purpose. We sat there on the bank picking the shot out and blotting the blood with my pants. Not being mortally wounded we headed back home. When I got home, I yelled to Mom that I was back and dashed to my room. I quickly changed pants and stuffed my blooded pants into a paper bag that I snuck into the trash can out back. Safe! I didn’t wear shorts for a couple of weeks while my wounds healed. Mom never asked about the missing pants. All was well at home and the shad were able to live their lives out peacefully because of a lesson learned.

Thirty years later the phone rang. It was Dad with his weekly Saturday morning call. After we had discussed the weather and the prospects for Ole Miss’ success on the gridiron (both short topics) Dad mentioned that he had seen Jerry. Turns out Dad had needed a plumber. Jerry had finished his stint at Parchman, the state prison of Mississippi and had learned a trade while there – plumbing. “Son, tell me about Bogue Creek.” I suddenly became a twelve year old again as I told Dad the whole story. We both laughed and I was grateful that the visit with Jerry had been short. There was much more that could have been told. It was strange how after all those years I was still a bit embarrassed and ashamed that my misadventure had been revealed.

Imagine the woman at the well. All was revealed and yet this man didn’t speak words of condemnation, only loving acceptance. His eyes revealed grace and forgiveness. He offered living water that quenched every thirst of the soul. We all have our secrets. Some we wish could remain secret. But the One who knows them all, loves us most. Thanks be to God. We are forgiven.

Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he? John 3

God Cheers

Go Zackary. Go Zackary. Go Zackary. Go Zackary. Come to McGucken Park most any Tuesday evening these days and you’ll see a crazed bald guy standing on the sideline of a soccer game yelling his lungs out. Go Zackary. And go he does. He’s a fleet footed little guy. Zackary hangs back from the wad of players who are competing for control of the ball until it eventually pops out. Zackary is there waiting. His coach says he is a strategically smart player. I think he looks at those flying feet and trembles. Anyway, he gets the ball and streaks toward the goal with the bald guy encouraging every step. Go Zackary. Inevitably he gets to the goal and loses control sending the ball to unpredictable places.

My heart sinks. I want him to score. I want him to be successful. So, I yell some more. Then the coach yells. Then the players yell. So why is Zackary smiling, with all this yelling going on. Because everybody is yelling, “Way to go Zackary.” “Good playing Zackary.” “Great shot Zackary.” We celebrate the good that he did without dwelling on the mistake.

Don’t you wish our adult life was more like that. Adults, we, make mistakes and more often than not we hear the stinging words of blame. Accusations fly and insults are muttered. “Fire the coach.” “She did that on purpose.” “He knew better.” Worst of all are our own condemning words. We are indeed our own worst judge. Recordings from years ago start playing in our heads that we aren’t valuable. We can’t succeed. We deserved what we got.

Thankfully, God is not like that. God is always with us cheering us on, “Go Howard. Go Mary. Go Steve. You can do it.” God desires our best, always. Mistakes? I make them. You make them. But God says to us, “You are forgiven.” Others may condemn. We may condemn ourselves. But we have a “cheerleader” that is always, always cheering us on. Go Terri. Go Mike. Go Jane. Way to go!

If God is for us, who is against us? – Romans 8

Communion

Here's a story as we approach All Saints Day . . .

Celtic Christians were people of the land. They were agrarian people but their connection to the land was more than economic. For them, the land on which they lived was sacred. It was as if they were inextricably bound to it. It was the place of family and it was a gift from their Creator. I have places like that for me. Shake Rag, MS is one of them. Every few years I go back to the place where my mother was raised and reminisce about a few acres that I was allowed to roam freely with a single shot shotgun and an old dog named Mike. We took on many dragons and slew them all.

Up the road is Boone’s Chapel Methodist Church. It is the first place that I had a real conversation with God. The story is a bit long for this but at around the age of 10, I became keenly aware that there was a Someone who loved me. Out behind the church is the cemetery. There are over 300 folks buried there and I think I might be related to almost all of them. A couple of years ago I walked the grounds of the cemetery, remembering my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, a cousin who died too soon, and a local TV repairman that often dropped by for Sunday dinner at Mama Bea’s. There were also tables, long tables that stretched out along the side of the church forever. I remember community gatherings on those tables that I know are older than even my memories of them. Fried chicken, corn bread, green beans, tomatoes, coconut cakes, fried corn and giant jars of tea filled every available space. I have to wonder if those tables are still being filled or have all the saints that once gathered around the tables now taken up residence behind the church. Has the community that once broke bread on rough hewn planks now gathered to celebrate communion at the banquet table with our Lord?

That day as I walked and felt the sacredness of the land beneath my feet, I was reminded of that “great cloud of witnesses” that Paul speaks of in Hebrews. They witnessed years ago to a skinny 10 year old about a mystery, about fellowship, simple faith and the importance of community. They witnessed to the next generation about faith and about communion, not from little glass cups and bits of crackers but from big jars of tea and cornbread. It was true communion … Southern style. Thanks be to God.